CHAPTER XVI.
TOM BARLEY HAS A SCENE WITH THE MISER.
Meanwhile Miser Farebrother and Tom Barley were "having it out" upstairs in the miser's room. Jeremiah Pamflett had put a very strong case before Miser Farebrother. He said that every time he came down to Parksides, Tom Barley laid wait for him and threatened to take his life.
"It's no fault of mine," said Jeremiah, "that I'm not as strong as that hulking vagabond, who makes any amount of money by robbing you. If you like to be robbed, I've nothing to say to it. Nobody loses anything but yourself. But I can't be coming regularly down here in fear of my life. You couldn't expect me to."
In short, Jeremiah indirectly gave Miser Farebrother to understand that if he retained Tom Barley in his employ he would have to come more often to London to look through the books and papers; and that he, Jeremiah Pamflett, would have to come less often to Parksides. Jeremiah was cunning enough to know that he was on safe ground in making this declaration. He had felt his way before he had arrived at it, and the miser was furious. It was impossible for him to go more often to London; there was no one he could trust but Jeremiah, and, in the light of a possible rupture, he placed an exaggerated value upon his clerk's services.
"He drew a knife upon me," said Jeremiah, "as I was coming here, because he saw me escorting Miss Farebrother home. She was in the village making purchases, and I thought it my duty to protect her."
"Quite right, quite right," said Miser Farebrother. "She ought to be much obliged to you."
"She was," said Jeremiah.
"Making purchases, eh?" exclaimed Miser Farebrother. "What was she purchasing—eh? You don't know? What's that you say? Oh, Tom Barley! I'll soon settle with him. They all rob me—everybody, everybody! You are the only one I can trust—the only one, the only one!"
"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," said Jeremiah, fervently. "I'd work my fingers off——"
"There, there!" said Miser Farebrother, fretfully. "Don't make protestations. I hate them. It is your interest to do your duty. I pay you well for it."
"You do; and I am grateful," said Jeremiah, feeling in his heart as if he would like to strangle his master. "But you don't care for that sort of thing, and I'll not say anything more."
"No; don't, don't!" groaned the miser. "Go; and send Tom Barley up to me."
Jeremiah nodded, and went out of the room. Miser Farebrother's eyes followed him; and when the door was closed, he groaned:
"He's as bad as the rest, I believe; but I've not been able to find him out. Is he cunninger and cleverer than I am? Curse my bones! Why can't I buy a new set? There isn't an honest man in the whole world. If Phœbe had been a boy instead of a girl, I might have had a little peace of mind; but as it is, I'm robbed right and left—right and left! Who's that at the door? Come in, can't you? Oh, it's you, Tom Barley?"
"Yes, it's me," said Tom. "What do you want of me?"
"Speak respectfully," screamed the miser.
"I am, though I've got no particular call to," said Tom. Truth to tell he was not in an amiable temper, what with his hunger, and his rags, and his meeting with Jeremiah. "You sent for me. What do you want? And mind this—I don't stir hand or foot till I get something to eat."
Miser Farebrother became suddenly quite cool. It was generally the case when an antagonist he had in his power was before him.
"Something to eat, eh? You scoundrel! you have the stomach of an ostrich."
"I wish I had," said Tom; "then I could fill it with stones and rusty nails. As it is, I can't get those things down. I give you warning——"
"What!" cried Miser Farebrother; "you give me warning?"
"Yes; not to call hard names, or mayhap I'll throw them back at you."
"Do you dare to speak to me in that manner," said the miser, "after all I've done for you?"
Tom Barley looked ruefully at his rags of clothes, and said, with unconscious humour, "Yes, you have done for me; there's no mistake about that. I remember you promised to make my fortune. I look as if it was made!"
"And whose fault is it," said Miser Farebrother, "that you're a pauper—whose fault but your own? That is, if what you say is true. But it isn't. You've got money rolled up in bundles somewhere—my money, that you've robbed me of."
Tom Barley burst out laughing. "Who has told you that cock-and-bull?" he asked. "I'd like to give him half to prove it. I'm thinking of buying Buckingham Palace, I am. I've got money enough to pay for it rolled up in bundles."
"Hold your tongue," said the miser, "and listen to me."
"Go ahead," said Tom Barley.
"When I first took you into my service," the miser commenced—
"At twopence a week," interposed Tom. "The Bank of England's breaking down with my savings."
"It was my intention to make a man of you," continued the miser; and again Tom Barley interrupted him.
"The Lord Almighty did that while you was thinking of it."
"But," proceeded the miser, "I soon found out that I had taken a hopeless case in hand; I soon discovered that a clodhopper you were and a clodhopper you would remain, till you took your place in the workhouse as a regular. Then I lost interest in you, and let you go your way."
"In a minute or two," said Tom Barley, "I've got a couple of words to say to you that I don't go out of this room without saying."
"I allowed you to remain on my estate, and gave you your meals, and paid you so much a week."
"Why not say so little, instead of so much?" asked Tom, who, driven by necessity and despair, was coming out in a new light.
"The work you did I could have had done for a song——"
"The Lord forbid," said Tom, "that I should have heard you sing it! It would have given me the gripes. I've got 'em now."
"But I kept you on out of charity, and I told you that you were at liberty to earn money elsewhere whenever you could pick up an odd job."
"My experience is," he said, "that there's about five million evens to one odd."
"The result of my kindness and liberality is that you are as you are, an idle, skulking, thieving vagabond."
"Have you done?" asked Tom.
"Not yet. I have had a serious complaint made against you, and I intend to take notice of it in a practical way. You have threatened the life of my clerk, Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett, a most estimable young man, in whom I place implicit confidence. You lie in ambush for him, and he goes in terror of you."
"That's the best thing I've heard yet," said Tom Barley, rubbing his hands gleefully.
"Such a state of things is no longer to be endured, and I shall put an end to it. Tom Barley, I discharge you from my service."
"Is that all?"
"That is all. I wash my hands of you. As to your conduct toward my clerk, I warn you to be very careful. A watch will be set upon you, and if you repeat your threats you will have to put up with the consequences."
"I'll do that; it's a matter between this Jeremiah of yours and me. As to threatening his life, that I've never done. A long while ago I got him thrashed—I didn't do it myself; I was too big—for insulting your daughter, and if ever he insults her again, and I get to know it, he'll be thrashed again. As to being turned from your service, I'll put up with it. Whatever I do I can't be worse off than I am. But you said something else. You said I've got money rolled up in bundles somewhere, and that I've robbed you of it. Now out with it like a man; you did say it!"
"Yes, I did," snarled Miser Farebrother.
"What I've got to say to that is, that you're a liar! I ain't given to hard words, but when I'm drove to it I use 'em; and my answer to your charge is, you're a liar! Straight from the shoulder, master: you're a liar!"
Upon that Tom marched out of the room, with erect head and angry eye; but when he got half-way down the staircase his look softened and his head drooped, for Phœbe stood before him. While he was in the presence of Miser Farebrother, asserting his manhood, he had not thought of her. She had heard the angry voices of her father and Tom, and she had waited to learn the cause. She beckoned Tom to follow her, and they were presently in the little room which she could call her own.
"Oh, Tom," she said, "what is it?"
"Well, miss," he replied, "I hardly like to say, but you'd get to know it if I didn't tell you. Your father and me's had a difference, all along of that clerk of his, Jeremiah, Mrs. Pamflett's white-livered son. He's been telling your father stories about me which ain't true. Don't believe 'em when you hear 'em—don't!"
"I won't, Tom."
"Thank you, miss. I'm going to leave Parksides, miss."
"Oh, Tom!"
"Your father's discharged me. If he hadn't, I don't know what I should have done, because—look at me, miss—I ain't fit to be seen."
"Oh, Tom, I am so sorry! How I shall miss you!"
"I feel that bad over it, because of you, that I can't express. But it ain't my fault."
"I am sure it is not, Tom. Have you thought what you shall do?"
"Well, miss, I'm going to London, to be a policeman, if they'll take me on. It ain't my idea: it's somebody else's. And perhaps if I get to be a policeman, I'll be put on somewhere near Camden Town. I don't ask for anything better, miss; for then I shall be near where you will be sometimes, and I can look after you. Don't speak to me, miss, don't look at me, for I feel like breaking down. Good-bye, Miss Phœbe, good-bye, and God bless you!"
And, choking with tears, the honest fellow rushed away.
CHAPTER XVII.
FANNY CONFIDES A SECRET TO HER MOTHER.
The visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides was an event of great importance. Neither Uncle Leth, Fanny nor Bob had ever been there, and it was five or six years since Aunt Leth had set foot in it. Of all the family she was the only one who would have been able to recognize Miser Farebrother, and to say, "That is Phœbe's father." Nearly twenty years had elapsed since Uncle Leth had seen the miser, and he was rather doubtful as to how he would be received, their last meeting not having been a pleasant one. Fanny was very curious and very nervous; Phœbe's father was a solemn mysterious personage, a being apart, whose acquaintance she was now for the first time to make. What kind of looking gentleman was he? Their albums contained the portraits of all their friends and relations, near and distant, some from infancy upward; but the portrait of Miser Farebrother found no place therein. It is doubtful, indeed, whether he had ever had his portrait taken; certainly there was none extant. Even Phœbe did not possess one. It had been a tacit arrangement among the Lethbridge's not to refer in general conversation to Phœbe's father, and to Bob and Fanny he was an utter stranger in fact and sentiment. But now that they were to be brought into contact with him, he became an object of immediate interest to them.
"What shall we call him?" said Fanny to Bob. "Of course he is our uncle, and we ought to call him Uncle Farebrother."
Bob professed not to care—in which he was not ingenuous. "All that I've heard about him," he said, "is that he is known as Miser Farebrother."
"It won't do to call him that," said Fanny; "he would be offended, and might fly out at us. Ought I to kiss him?"
"Wait till you're asked," replied Bob. "He must be immensely rich."
"More shame for him," said Fanny indignantly, "to keep Phœbe as short as he does. What does he do with all his money?"
"Wraps it up in old stockings, buries it, hides it in the chimneys, carries it in bags round his waist, stuffs his mattress with it. There was a miser found dead in a garret in Lambeth the other day, and though there wasn't a crust of bread in the room, they found four thousand pounds hidden away in teapots, mouse-traps, nightcaps, old boots and all sorts of rum places. He used to go about begging, and would snatch a bone from a dog."
"Miserable wretch!" cried Fanny. "I hope Uncle Farebrother isn't like that."
"Not exactly, I should say; but quite bad enough. He hasn't treated us very handsomely."
"Well, never mind," said Fanny. "We don't go to see him; we are going for Phœbe's sake."
Their anticipations of their uncle were not very glowing; but as they had been warned by their mother, what passed between them respecting him was regarded as confidential. To Phœbe they said not a word.
On the Saturday morning Mr. Lethbridge, on his way to the bank, had a little day-dream. He and his wife and children had arrived at the railway station which led to Parksides, and had beguiled the journey by discussing how they should get to Miser Farebrother's house. Should they ride? Should they walk? Would Phœbe meet them? The question was settled for them immediately they alighted from the train. There was Phœbe, all smiles, and dressed most beautifully, even elegantly. And who should be by her side but her father, all smiles also, and elegantly dressed? He came forward in the pleasantest manner, and shook hands with every one of them, and Phœbe whispered to Uncle Leth, "It is all nonsense about father being a miser. It was only fun on his part. He has been saving up for me, and you, and Aunt Leth, and all of us. You have no idea how good and kind he is." There was actually a carriage waiting for them, and they all got into it, and rode in jubilant spirits to Parksides: a mansion fit for a nobleman. Gables, turrets, mullioned windows, walls covered with old ivy, grounds and gardens most tastefully laid out—everything perfect. Footmen about, and pretty maids neatly dressed, music playing somewhere. There was a sumptuous dinner provided for them: wonderful dishes, the best of wine. The day-dreamer made a speech, in which he dilated upon the happiness which Miser Farebrother had shed upon them, and how it was all the greater because of the delightful surprise which Phœbe's father had been for so many years preparing for them. Mr. Lethbridge's mental speeches were always marvels of oratory—not a word out of place, the turns most felicitous—and this speech at Miser Farebrother's dinner-table was even happier than usual. Then Miser Farebrother responded, and came out in a light so unexpected and agreeable that the place rang with cheers, and the music struck up "For he's a jolly good fellow," in which they all joined at the top of their voices. When the feast was ended Miser Farebrother asked him to step into his private room, and there, over a bottle of rare old port, he produced his will, which he read to the dreamer, and in which every member of the dreamer's family was handsomely provided for. He would not listen to the dreamer's expressions of gratitude. "Not a word: not a word," he said. "It has been a whim of mine to allow you to suppose I was mean and miserly and cruel, when all the time I have been overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Now we are all going to live happily together." Then they joined the young people in the grounds, where there was a marquee erected for the guests to dance in. There was quite a gathering; numbers of ladies and gentlemen had been invited, and among them Fred Cornwall, who had returned from his holiday trip. The young lawyer was dancing now with Fanny, and Miser Farebrother said: "I shouldn't wonder if that was to be a match. When it is arranged, look out for a splendid wedding present from me;" and Fanny coming up, the miser pinched her cheek, and said something which made her blush. It was altogether a most exhilarating entertainment, and the union of the relations most harmonious. Of course it was a lovely night, and as the dreamer arrived at the bank, he said to himself, "I have passed the pleasantest day in my remembrance."
While he was at his desk a conversation took place at home between Fanny and her mother respecting Fred Cornwall. He had called upon the Lethbridges on the previous evening, and although he was full of agreeable chat, he seemed disappointed at not finding Phœbe at her aunt's house. As he had said in his last letter to Fanny, he had brought presents home for all of them, and when Fanny twitted him privately with having nothing for Phœbe, he answered,
"Oh, yes, I have; but I must give them to her personally."
"To-morrow will be a capital time to give her a present," said Fanny.
"Is she coming here to-morrow?" asked Fred, eagerly.
"No," replied Fanny; "we are all going to her at Parksides. It is her birthday."
"She did not leave me an invitation, I suppose?" said Fred.
"No," said Fanny; "but if I were a young gentleman I shouldn't wait for one."
"Wouldn't you?"
"No. I should make my way to Parksides, and take my presents with me, and give her a delightful surprise."
"Do you really think I might venture?"
"Ishouldn't think twice about it," said Fanny, vivaciously. "But you mustn't come with us, because, of course, we don't know anything about it. We shall be quite astonished when you make your appearance with a flourish of trumpets."
There and then the affectionate conspiracy was discussed and planned, and Fred said that Fanny was the dearest girl living, which Fanny disputed, asking how could she be when Phœbe stopped the way.
It was about noon on the Saturday that Fanny said to her mother, "I am going to let you into a secret."
Aunt Leth's thoughts immediately travelled to Fred Cornwall. She had observed the whispered conference which had taken place on the previous night between the young man and her daughter, with their heads very close together, and she had formed her own conclusions; and now the secret was about to be revealed. Fred had been making serious love to Fanny; there could not be a doubt that this was Fanny's secret.
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, tenderly.
"It is about Mr. Cornwall," said Fanny.
"Yes, Fanny."
Despite her joy, a pang went right through her heart; it is always so with affectionate parents when the bolt really falls, and the contemplation of a beloved daughter leaving the happy home becomes a certainty.
"And Phœbe," said Fanny.
Mrs. Lethbridge's face underwent a change. In matters of the heart a woman's instincts are lightning-tipped.
"I have an idea," said Fanny, "that they are fond of each other."
Mrs. Lethbridge looked apprehensively at her daughter, but she saw in Fanny's face no despondency, no disappointment. On the contrary, it was radiant. The fond mother smiled.
"Only an idea, Fanny?" she asked.
"Only an idea, mother," said Fanny. "There has been nothing really serious said, but I am certain I am not mistaken. Now confess, mother; you thought I was the magnet?"
"Well, my dear, I did have a suspicion, and it has been proved to be wrong."
"You are not sorry, mother?"
"No, my dear, so long as you are happy. That is my only care."
"I am perfectly happy, and I mean to die an old maid. Dear Phœbe! I do hope everything will turn out right."
"We all hope so, Fanny. I suppose I must not say anything to her?"
"Not for worlds, mother. You must wait till she speaks to you."
"I am not so sure, Fanny. She has no mother to confide in, and to whom she can unreservedly open her heart. I must think over it, for her sake."
"If you thought Mr. Cornwall was good enough for me," said Fanny, "he is good enough for Phœbe."
"My dear, the cases are different."
"How different?"
"Mr. Cornwall knows her position. If it had been you instead of Phœbe, he would not have expected money with you. When people have arrived at the time of life which your father and I have reached, and have children whom they love as we love ours, they cannot help feeling a little disturbed at their want of fortune. Young men nowadays look out for money; it is not as it used to be."
"It is with me, mother. I am an old-fashioned girl, and if a young man casts sheeps' eyes at me it will be a satisfaction to know that it isn't my dowry that attracts him. And for my part, mother, I mean to marry for love—if I everdomarry."
"I am glad to hear you say so, my dear; they are the happiest marriages. Our life has been a happy one: never for one moment have I regretted marrying your father."
"I should think not, mother! Who is there in the world to compare with him?"
"There is not one, my dear. It would be difficult indeed to meet with a man so good, so unselfish, so devoted. But we were speaking of Phœbe. The cases are different, I said. Mr. Cornwall would have had no difficulty in obtaining our consent, had it been you instead of Phœbe. Have you forgotten that Phœbe has a father?"
"I did not think of him," said Fanny, a little depressed by the allusion. "But what objection could he have to Mr. Cornwall?"
"That is not for us to say. Phœbe's father is a peculiar man, and he may have views for Phœbe of which we are ignorant. Mr. Cornwall's suit will rest with him, not with us."
"Mr. Cornwall is a gentleman."
"Undoubtedly; and, so far as I can judge, calculated to make a girl happy. But that is not the question."
"What is the question, mother?"
"Money. Fanny, what I am about to say must not pass out of this room."
"Very well, mother."
"Phœbe's father may say to Mr. Cornwall: 'You ask me for my daughter's hand. How much money have you got?'"
"What a coarse way of putting it!" exclaimed Fanny disdainfully.
"I am aware of it, but for Phœbe's sake I am trying to think it out in the way it will happen. I have never inquired into Mr. Cornwall's circumstances; but they are not very flourishing at present, are they?"
"I don't think they are."
"I know they are not. He and your father have had conversations which lead me to the belief that he earns just a sufficient income to keep himself comfortably."
"He is very clever in his profession; and there is the future."
"That is one of the things I am thinking of," said Mrs. Lethbridge, gravely: "the future. 'How much money have you got?' Phœbe's father will ask him; and when the young man answers honestly—as Mr. Cornwall is sure to do—Phœbe's father will say, 'As you have no money of your own, you come after my daughter's.' I am very much afraid of it, Fanny. I pray that there is no trouble in store for her."
"Mother, you frighten me." Fanny experienced at that moment a feeling of terror at the conspiracy into which she and Fred Cornwall had entered, which was to result in Fred's unexpected appearance at Parksides with birthday presents for Phœbe. She did not dare to refer to it, so she kept the secret locked in her breast.
"I do not wish to frighten you, my dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "and perhaps, after all, I am only raising bug-bears. Let us hope for the best."
"We will," said Fanny, brightening up instantly. She was like an April day; the least glimpse of sunshine brought gladness to her. "And now, mother, just one word."
"Well, my dear?"
"If Mr. Cornwall proposes to Phœbe—which he will—and if she accepts him—which she will—and if he speaks to Phœbe's father, and Phœbe's father will not hear of it, what is to be done?"
"My dear child, you are putting a riddle to me."
"What I want to know is," said Fanny, very determinedly, "whether, if Phœbe's father refuses his consent, Phœbe ought to marry without it." She felt that she had achieved a triumph in putting it so clearly.
"Would you marry without ours?" asked Mrs. Lethbridge.
"Mother, be logical, as Fred Cornwall says. Did you not say yourself that the cases are different?"
"Yes, I did," replied the perplexed mother.
"Well, there it is, then," said Fanny; and as her mother did not speak, she relentlessly opened another broadside.
"If an honourable gentleman really and truly loves a young lady, and if a young lady really and truly loves him in return, and if they are worthy of each other, and if there is a fair prospect of his getting along in the world in an honourable profession, and of their being truly happy together, ought they not to marry in spite of a miserly hunks of a father?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "let us drop the subject, and hope for the best."
"Thank you, mother.Weknow that Phœbe is not happy at home."
"It is so, unfortunately."
"Andweknow that our home is hers if she should ever be without one."
"Yes, my dear."
"Then, my own dearest mother," said Fanny, putting her arms round the good mother's neck and showering kisses upon her, "there is nothing more to be said."
CHAPTER XVIII.
MRS. PAMFLETT DEVELOPS A SUDDEN AFFECTION FOR PHŒBE.
Uncle Leth's day-dream was not realized—but then his day-dreams never were. When he and his family, travelling third-class, reached the station for Parksides, there was no Miser Farebrother to receive them with open arms and a carriage. Phœbe was there, and that was quite as good—almost more than they expected. She was a favourite with the station-master and ticket-takers, who always admitted her to the platform, whether the gates were closed or not; and the Lethbridges, looking out of the window, saw her waving her handkerchief to them, and running along the platform, the moment they were in sight. Then there was such a kissing and hugging as made the hearts of the unenvious ones glad to witness, and the mouths of the envious ones to water, wishing they had a free ticket to participate in an entertainment so delightful.
"Itisgood of you to come and meet us," said Fanny. "I was wondering all the way whether you would."
"I did not know whether I should be able," said Phœbe, in a flutter of excitement; "but Mrs. Pamflett has been very kind. I hardly liked to ask her to help me with the tea; but she came and offered of her own accord, and said perhaps I would like to go and meet my friends. So here I am."
Mr. Lethbridge opened his ears upon mention of Mrs. Pamflett, and he was glad to hear so good an account of her. An act of thoughtfulness and good-nature from her was a guarantee for her son, who had discounted his acceptance for three hundred pounds for the dramatic author and Kiss.
They had all brought modest birthday presents for Phœbe, which they handed to her at once, with flowers and kisses and the best of affectionate wishes. Bob was in the seventh heaven in consequence of being allowed a share in the kissing business.
"I did not have time to write to you last night," whispered Fanny to Phœbe. "He has come home, and had tea with us. He is looking so well! brown, and handsomer than ever. What a perfectly lovely day!"
They walked to Parksides, expressing pleasure at everything—at the weather, at the scenery, at the pretty village, at the children, at the cottages, at the church—all of which, it seemed to the little party, had put on a holiday garb in honour of Phœbe. The flowers were brighter, the sunlight clearer, the birds sang more sweetly, as they walked and talked, each of the Lethbridges claiming a share in Phœbe's society, and each obtaining it. Now with Bob, now with Fanny, now with Aunt Leth, now with Uncle—she ran from one to another, chatting gaily, and bursting out into snatches of song. It was her day, her very own—a day of sunshine without and within.
Mrs. Pamflett's amiability needs a word of explanation. The conversation she had had with her son Jeremiah had opened her eyes as to his intentions; and both to please him and to win Phœbe's favour she had offered to assist the young girl. But for Jeremiah's sake she would not have dreamt of such a thing. She had lain awake half the night thinking of the conversation, and she had come to the conclusion that it would be a fine match for Jeremiah. Much as she had disliked Phœbe, she admired her son for his ambition. Miser Farebrother's "aching of bones" was growing worse every week, every day; suffering as he did, it would soon be impossible for him to give any personal attention to his business in London. No one understood it, no one could attend to it, but Jeremiah. What, then, was more feasible than Jeremiah's scheme of becoming Miser Farebrother's son-in-law? "To think," she mused in the night, "that it never entered my mind! But Jeremiah's got a head on him. He will be a millionaire, and I shall be a lady!" The idea of a repulse—that Phœbe would not think Jeremiah good enough for her—never occurred to Mrs. Pamflett; if it had, she would have rejected it with scorn. What! her son, her bright boy—handsome, shrewd, and clever—not good enough for the best lady in the land! A little chit like Phœbe might consider herself lucky that such a man as Jeremiah should condescend to her. "I can't, for the life of me, see," she mused, "why Jeremiah should be so taken with her; but there's no accounting for a man's fancies. And then he said he wasn't particular. Ah! Jeremiah knows what he's about." All her hopes, all her desires, all her ambitions, being centred in her bright boy, she determined to assist him by every means in her power. She commenced the next morning, on this happy birthday, and, to Phœbe's surprise, wished her a happy birthday and many returns of them, and offered to relieve the young girl of all responsibility in the preparing of the tea for her friends. Phœbe met her advances gladly. On such a day no suspicion of sinister motives could occur to a nature so sweet, so pure, so innocent; and when Mrs. Pamflett asked her to accept a brooch, she received it with a pleasant feeling of gratitude. "It is an old brooch," Mrs. Pamflett said, "a memento; and although it is not very valuable, it comes from my heart." There was a certain literal truth in this, because the brooch was one which Mrs. Pamflett was in the habit of wearing; it might not have been considered a very suitable gift for a young girl like Phœbe, as it contained a lock of some dead-and-gone person's hair, arranged as a feather or a curl over a tombstone. Once upon a time it doubtless had a meaning, and might have brought a light of joy or sorrow to special human eyes; but the memories which sanctified it being deader than the deadest ghost that superstition could conjure up, it certainly could not be considered a suitable gift for Phœbe. Its fatal meaning for her lay in the future.
When Mrs. Pamflett said to Phœbe that perhaps she would like to go and meet her friends at the railway station, she thought it likely that Jeremiah would be in the train. He had not told her by which train he was coming, and her desire was to give him an opportunity of walking home with Phœbe. She did not betray herself when she saw Phœbe return in the company of the Lethbridges and without Jeremiah. She possessed a gift invaluable to sly, secretive natures—the gift of absolute self-repression. Phœbe introduced Mrs. Pamflett to her friends. Aunt Leth was already acquainted with her, and was astonished at the graciousness and amiability of the housekeeper, her previous experience of her having been quite the reverse. Uncle Leth nodded and said, "How d'ye do?" but Fanny was rather stiff—"uppish," as Mrs. Pamflett subsequently told her son.
"Tea will not be ready for half an hour or so," said Mrs. Pamflett, aside, to Phœbe. "I have set it upstairs in your favourite room."
"O," was Phoebe's delighted rejoinder, "how kind of you!"
"I want you to love me," said Mrs. Pamflett. "If you find that my only wish is to please you, perhaps you will."
"Indeed I will," said Phœbe; and thought, "Perhaps my father will love me too."
She asked the Lethbridges to wait a moment or two, and she went to her father's room.
"Aunt and uncle are here, and my cousins."
"What has that to do with me?" he asked.
"May they come up and see you, father?"
"No," he replied; "I can't be bothered. They wish to see me as little as I wish to see them."
While this last question was being asked and answered, Mrs. Pamflett entered the room.
"I think you should see them, sir," she said.
"Why?" he asked.
"As a mark of politeness," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Mr. Lethbridge and your nephew and niece have never been here before, and they might think it rude of you."
"Do I care if they do?" he snarled.
"It is not that," she answered, calmly, "but it is Miss Phœbe's birthday."
"Mrs. Pamflett is very kind," said Phœbe, nervously, "but if you don't wish, father——"
"I wish to do what is right," he said, very coolly, as was his habit when he was opposed.
"We all know that," said Mrs. Pamflett, in a voice as composed as his own. "You always do what is right. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and their children are going to have tea with Miss Phœbe in honour of her birthday, and I have been getting it ready, and am going to wait on them. You ought to join them. I have set a chair for you at the head of the table."
"Oh, father, if you would!" implored Phœbe, clasping her hands.
"You wish it?" he asked of her, but not removing his eyes from Mrs. Pamflett's face.
"Yes, father. If you would only be so good!"
"Andyouwish it?" he asked of Mrs. Pamflett.
"For Miss Phœbe's sake I do," replied Mrs. Pamflett, without so much as winking an eyelid.
"Not for your own?"
"I have told you what I think."
"Let it be so," said Miser Farebrother. "Phœbe, I will take tea with you and your friends."
"Oh, papa!" In her gratitude the affectionate girl—only too ready to give love for love—threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed him.
"There! there!" he said, pushing her away; "go down to your friends. You can stop, Mrs. Pamflett."
Phœbe ran down-stairs to convey the good news to the Lethbridges, and Mrs. Pamflett and the miser were left together.
"Now, Mrs. Pamflett," he said abruptly, "what is all this about?"
"I do not understand you," was her reply.
"You understand me thoroughly," he said. "I can't see through a millstone, but I can see through you."
"Then why do you ask me to explain anything?" she retorted.
"You have lived here sixteen years," he said, "and you think you know me as well as I am sure I know you. Because I have never interfered with you, because I have allowed you to do as you like——"
She interrupted him here. "Have I ever wasted a penny of your money?"
"To my knowledge, no. If you had, you would have heard of it."
"Yes, that is very certain. Every farthing spent in this house has been accounted for in the book which you look over every week. You would find it hard to get anybody in my place."
"Oh, that is it! You threaten to leave me!"
"You are not only mistaken, you know you are stating an untruth. Yes, an untruth." The words denoted indignation, but it was not expressed in her voice or manner.
"Is that a proper way to speak to me?" he cried.
"I pass no opinion," was her unimpassioned reply. "If you are tired of me, or if I do not please you, you can send me away."
"You would go?"
"I should be bound to go. What else could I do? If I refused, you could call in the police."
"You are bent upon exasperating me, I see. You know I could not do without you."
"I know it."
"And that is why you are impudent to me."
"You have never found me so."
"Because I am bound to you hand and foot, because you know my ways, having grown into them, because I depend upon you and trust you, because I am weak and ill and dependent, you think you can twist me about as you like. You shall find that you are mistaken."
"Do you wish me to leave Parksides to-night? I will go and get ready."
He glared at her. "Well, why don't you go?"
"I am waiting for orders. Give them, and I will obey you—as I have obeyed you in everything else."
"You have no more wish to leave me," he said, laughing scornfully, "than I have that you should. You could no more do without me than I could do without you."
"There may be a balance," she said, "and it may be to my credit. You seem to be angry because I have made an endeavour to please your daughter."
"Have you ever endeavoured to please her before to-day?" he asked slyly.
"Have you," she retorted, "ever taken the trouble to ascertain?"
He paused awhile before he spoke. "Having been imprisoned up here, out of sight of things, with no eyes for anything beyond this room, you may think I haven't known what is going on in my house. You are mistaken—egregiously mistaken—as mistaken as your son Jeremiah, who perhaps has an idea that I do not know when I am absent what is going on in my office in London."
"Do you wishhimto leave as well as me?" said Mrs. Pamflett. The conspicuous and amazing feature of her speech was that she made these propositions as though they did not in the slightest degree affect her, or any person in whom she was interested. "With his talents for business, he will not have the least difficulty in obtaining a position of trust elsewhere."
"I have unmasked you," said Miser Farebrother; "you have a design. Out with it."
"I have no design," said Mrs. Pamflett, "except your interests; and if it happens that your interests and ours——"
"And ours!" he cried.
"And ours," she repeated. "If it happens that our interests are identical, it should rather please than anger you. You say that you are bound hand and foot to me. That is a compliment, and I am obliged to you; but supposing it to be true, I am as much bound hand and foot to you, and so is my son Jeremiah. It may be in your power to so chain him to you that he would become an absolute slave to your interests."
"Interests again!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "Always interests—nothing but interests."
"Well," said Mrs. Pamflett, "what do we live for? What doyoulive for?"
This was a home thrust indeed, and Miser Farebrother accepted it in good part. Despite the outward aspect of this singular conversation, it was not entirely disagreeable to him. He appreciated the services of Mrs. Pamflett and her son; he knew that he could not replace them; he had not left it to the present hour to reckon up their monetary value.
"To come back to Phœbe," he said; "what is all this about? No beating about the bush—plain speaking."
"I love her," said Mrs. Pamflett, "as a daughter."
"And Jeremiah is your only son?"
"My only son. The best, the brightest, the cleverest man in England! And devoted to you, body and soul."
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said Miser Farebrother, with a malicious grin; "I will think about it."
CHAPTER XIX.
A BEAUTIFUL BIRTHDAY.
Miser Farebrother did not keep his promise of taking tea with Phœbe and her friends—he had matter more serious to occupy him—but to some extent he made atonement for it. He sent for Phœbe, and told her that he did not feel equal to the excitement, but that, before the evening was over, he would welcome Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and her cousins to Parksides. This, to Phœbe, was almost as good as the keeping of his promise; he spoke in a feeble voice, as though he was ill, and his unexpected kindness and consideration touched her. She put her hand timidly upon his shoulder, moved thereto by sweet pity for his condition, and he did not repulse her; she was even bold enough to lower her face to his and kiss him more than once, and he bore it contentedly. A new feeling stirred her heart, new hopes were born within her. That this unexpected change in her father's bearing toward her should take place on her birthday was a happy omen, and she was deeply grateful for it. From this time forth her home life would bring her joy instead of sorrow. She went from her father's room with a light step, ready to burst forth into song.
The feeble voice in which Miser Farebrother had spoken to Phœbe was assumed; his weakness was assumed; all the time she was with him he was watching her keenly and warily. He had never thought of her but as a child; the idea of her marrying had never entered his head; but now that it was presented to him he seized upon it and turned it about to the light. The only friends his daughter had were the Lethbridges; they had a son, who doubtless would be only too ready to snap at such a bait as Phœbe. For her sake?—because he loved her?—not at all. Because her father was supposed to be rich; because of the money he would calculate upon getting with her. And thereafter there would ever and eternally be but one cry—money, money, money! All their arts, all their endeavours, their only object, would be to bleed his money-bags bare. "No, no, Mr. Lethbridge," thought Miser Farebrother, "not a penny shall ever pass from my pockets to yours." But the danger might not present itself through the Lethbridges. Phœbe might fall in love with a spendthrift or a cunning rogue. That would be as bad—worse, perhaps. Despite his aversion to the Lethbridges, his experience of them had taught him that they were proud, and that in the event of Phœbe marrying into their family there would be a chance of respite for him after a time, a chance that they would make up their minds to submit to poverty, and trouble him no more. With a spendthrift it would be different. There would be no peace for him; the appeals for money would be incessant; he would be torn to pieces with worry. Then came the cunning rogue on to the scene, in the shape which was most objectionable to Miser Farebrother, in that of a scheming lawyer. There was more to fear from that than from any other aspect of the subject. Miser Farebrother knew the power of the law when he invoked it on his side—which he never did without being prepared with stamped deeds and witnessed signatures—but he knew also the power of the law if, in certain cases which he could call to mind, it were invoked against him. Plaintiff and defendant were different things, had different chances. He himself never prosecuted without weighing the minutest chance, without being absolutely certain that he was standing on sure legal ground. He had submitted to losses rather than run a risk. There was one instance in which a disreputable, out-at-elbows, dissipated lawyer had defied him to his teeth—had unblushingly defrauded him by threatening exposure. Miser Farebrother, knowing that certain transactions in which he was principal would not bear the light, had submitted to be robbed rather than be dragged into the witness-box and cross-examined. Such inquiries often commence tamely, but there is no saying where they lead to; a man's smallest peccadilloes are shamelessly dragged forth, his very soul is turned inside out. Then there are judges who, the moment a money-lending case comes before them, set to work on the debtor's side to defraud the creditor. Miser Farebrother, therefore, was wise in his generation in the tactics he pursued. Some low-minded scheming limb of the law might pay court to Phœbe, with but one end in view. The thought of it sent a shiver through his nerves.
His reflections were not agreeable, but he had a large amount of common-sense, and he knew they might be serviceable. He was not displeased with Mrs. Pamflett for suggesting them. She was a useful woman; truly, as he had said, he would not have known what to do without her. She had made the same admission on her side; that was honest of her. There were conditions of life which a sensible man must accept and make the best of, and his was one. Not being able to purchase a new set of bones and nerves, he felt that to a great extent he was at the mercy of Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah. As difficult to replace the loss of Jeremiah in his London office as to replace the loss of Mrs. Pamflett in his house at Parksides. It was a wretched state of things, but it must be borne, and as much profit as possible made out of it. "Phœbe had only herself to blame," he thought, with monstrous mental distortion. "If she had been a boy instead of a girl, it would all have been different."
There was no mistaking the meaning of Mrs. Pamflett's references to her son. Well, Phœbe might do worse; and if, as Mrs. Pamflett had said, he could so bind Jeremiah to him as to make him an absolute slave to his interests, such a marriage might be altogether the best thing that could happen. It would be an additional protection to Miser Farebrother's money-bags. "I will bind him tight," thought the miser—"tight! Clever lad, Jeremiah; but I shall be a match for him."
Not a thought of his daughter's happiness; she would have to do as he ordered. Thus, in the secrecy of Miser Farebrother's room, the web was forming in which Phœbe was to be entangled and her happiness wrecked.
Outside this room everything was bright. Phœbe had told Aunt and Uncle Leth of her father's goodness, and they, simple-minded and guileless as herself, rejoiced with her. "Upon my word," said Uncle Leth, "it almost makes my dream true." Phœbe moved about, singing, smiling, laughing to herself now and then, and scattering flowers of gladness all around her. "I never saw our dear Phœbe so bright," said Aunt Leth. "Our visit to Parksides is a most beautiful surprise, quite different from what I expected."
It was not the only surprise; there was another, even more subtly sweet to Phœbe. This was the appearance of Fred Cornwall, who, finding no bell at the gates by which he could announce his arrival, walked boldly through, and suddenly presented himself. They were all outside the house, awaiting Mrs. Pamflett's summons to tea.
"Why," exclaimed the arch-conspirator Fanny, calling astonishment into her features, "if there isn't Mr. Cornwall coming up the walk! Who would have thought it? and how ever did he find us out?"
Phœbe turned toward the young man, blushing, and with a palpitating heart.
"I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," said he; "but as it is your birthday I thought I might venture."
"How did you know?" asked Phœbe, her hand in his.
"A little bird told me," was his reply. "How do you do, Aunt Leth? How do you do, Miss Fanny?"
He exchanged pleasant words of greeting with his friends and looked very handsome, and by no means ill at ease, though an uninvited guest. Well dressed, well mannered, a gentleman every inch of him.
At the door of the house, unseen by anyone of the happy group, Mrs. Pamflett appeared. She saw the meeting, and noted Phœbe's blushing face. She partly closed the door, and, retreating a step, stood there, watching and debating within herself.
Fred Cornwall held in his hand a bunch of flowers, very choice specimens, loosely tied, and arranged with charming grace. Not in the shape of a regulation bouquet, but infinitely more beautiful in their apparently careless form. He offered them to Phœbe, and she accepted them. Mrs. Pamflett set her thin white lips close.
Then the young gentleman presented, as birthday gifts, the presents he had bought for Phœbe on his Continental trip, accompanying them with heart-felt wishes. Phœbe, trembling, thrilling, was in the seventh heaven of joy.
When, however, she recovered her self-possession, she felt herself in a difficulty. Would her father be angry? Aunt Leth, seeing the light shadow on her face, moved aside with her.
"You are thinking of your father, Phœbe?" she said.
"Yes, aunt."
"You would like Mr. Cornwall to stop to tea?" Enlightened by Fanny's confession in the early part of the day, she regarded Mr. Cornwall and her niece as lovers, and her sympathies were already enlisted on their side.
"Yes, aunt," replied Phœbe. "But it is a little awkward, is it not? What shall I do?"
"Go and ask your father," said Aunt Leth. "Say that Mr. Cornwall is a friend of ours, and that you have often met him at our house. Go at once; Mr. Cornwall need not know; I will keep him engaged while you are away."
Phœbe nodded, and started for the house. Mrs. Pamflett, seeing her coming, beat a retreat, not desiring to meet the young girl just at that moment.
"Father," said Phœbe, "I am in a difficulty. I hope you will not mind."
"Not at all," said Miser Farebrother. She had never heard him speak in a voice so kind and gentle.
"A friend of Aunt Leth's has just arrived, and has brought me these." She showed him the flowers and the presents, and he pretended to take interest in them. "He has been on the Continent, father; and he purchased presents for all of us."
"Very generous, very generous," said Miser Farebrother. "Did you invite him here?"
"No, father; I would not have dared without asking your consent. I can't make out how he found his way here, and how he knew it was my birthday. I did not tell him."
"Perhaps your aunt did."
"I think not, father."
"What is your difficulty, Phœbe?"
"I should like to ask him to stop to tea, if you have no objection."
"You may ask him," said Miser Farebrother. He had a direct motive in giving his consent so readily. The nature of his late reflections had inspired an interest in all Phœbe's acquaintances, and he wished to see this friend of her aunt's.
"Oh, father, how can I thank you?"
"By obeying me, Phœbe."
"Yes, father; I will."
"I hope you will keep your word. What is the name of this new friend?"
"Not new, father—old."
"New to me. What is his name?"
"Mr. Cornwall. He is a gentleman, father."
"Young?"
"Yes, father."
"What is he besides being a gentleman?"
"He is a barrister."
"A lawyer? Ah! A clever one?"
"They say so, father."
"Ah! Is he a great friend of your aunt's?"
"A very great friend, father. They think the world of him."
He nodded, and dismissed her, and then gave himself up again to contemplation of the incident in connection with what had preceded it. He, as well as Mrs. Pamflett, had noted his daughter's blushes, her eagerness, her excitement of delight, and he placed his own construction upon her manner. It seemed to him as if he had been drawn into some game which it was vitally necessary he should win. It was strange how things appeared to fit in with one another! He had been thinking of lawyers, and here was one in his house, an unmistakable intruder, with flowers and presents for Phœbe, the daughter of rich Miser Farebrother. A clever lawyer too, and a great friend of the Lethbridges, whom he hated from the bottom of his heart. Bold schemers they, and a bold ally this Mr. Cornwall, to presume to come, uninvited, to his house, regarding him, its owner, as a person of no importance, whose wishes it was unnecessary to consult! What had passed between this unwelcome guest and Phœbe? How far had they gone? and what was being hidden from him? He did not doubt now that the presence of the Lethbridges in Parksides on his daughter's birthday was part of a cunning plot, in which their lawyer friend was a principal actor. "They are all in a league against me," he thought; "but I shall be equal with them. If Phœbe disobeys me, she must take the consequences. I will wring a promise from her to-night before I go to bed."
"Mr. Cornwall," said Phœbe, when she rejoined her friends in the open, "will you stop and have a cup of tea with us."
"Would it be possible," he said, turning with smiles to Fanny, "for me to refuse?"
"How should I know?" said Fanny, tossing her head.
"It will be a great pleasure to me," said Fred Cornwall to Phœbe. "I almost feared that I should be looked upon as an intruder."
"Of course you did," said Fanny, making a face at him behind her cousin's back; "that is why you came."
"We can all go back to London together," said Aunt Leth.
"Yes," said Fanny, "and you can make love to me in the train."
"You must not mind her, Mr. Cornwall," said Aunt Leth; "her high spirits sometimes run away with her."
"I wish some nice young gentleman would," whispered Fanny to Phœbe. "Why doesn't a fairy godmother take me in hand?"
"Aunt," said Phœbe, aside, to Mrs. Lethbridge, "I think I was never quite so happy as I am to-day. You have no idea how kind papa has been to me."
Aunt Leth pressed Phœbe's arm affectionately, and at that moment Mrs. Pamflett appeared and said that tea was ready. She had delayed it till the last minute in the hope that Jeremiah would arrive, and she was vexed and disappointed at his absence. Outwardly, however, she was all graciousness, and she took especial pains to put on her most amiable manners.
"No girl ever had a more beautiful birthday," thought Phœbe, as they all trooped into the house.